Unfinished Tales, Volume III
by Blancwene
Summary: More unfinished stories, Star Wars edition.
1. Love, Salvation, and the Fear of Death

_AN: After delving into the bowels of my hard drive, here are some more unfinished fic snippets. First up, a prose version of "Within a Room Somewhere," about Anakin's internal transformation into Darth Vader._

* * *

**UNFINISHED TALES:  
****PART THREE_  
_**

* * *

_Still own thee – still thou art  
What surgeons call alive –  
Though slipping – slipping I perceive  
To thy reportless Grave –  
Which question shall I clutch –  
What answer wrest from thee  
Before thou dost exude away  
In the recallless sea?  
_-Emily Dickinson

* * *

**Love, Salvation, and the Fear of Death**

* * *

He thinks he is dead.

The heat, the pain, the anguish – all his conflicting emotions and sensations crystallize into a feeling of despair so biting – and yet so powerful – that he revels in its singeing beauty. Inside the scorching darkness he finds a more primitive loveliness than the fragile face of his wife or the cool control of his Master – and as he sinks deeper into its destructive wonder, he feels the threads binding his spirit begin to burn away. All his links and ties to the outside world vanish, leaving him basking in the scalding flames of his approaching doom.

Here is the ultimate perfection: cold, hard, and merciless. The blackness calls to him, beckoning him further into its inferno.

Then the last seam of reason snaps, sending him into that perfect abyss, down and down and down ...

Light. Pressing against his eyelids, seeking a way past the strange wrappings on his face into his eyes, his mind, his soul.

Has he reached the bottom of that endless fall? The light chases the lingering shadows from his thoughts, searing and twisting like the familiar darkness – but it is different. That fire soothed his spirit as it consumed his body. This harsh beam offers no comforts, merely the bleak promise of reality.

He shifts slowly, trying to reach out for the receding void but discovering only numbness and emptiness. Forcing his eyes open from under the thick covering – a bandage, he realizes – he struggles to look down at himself.

His vision wavers, the white-swathed form before him blurring into nothingness.

The darkness returns, and he smiles to himself, retreating into the peaceful flames once more.

He is alone in the vast blackness. He breathes in deeply, holding the boiling air inside his lungs until his throat tingles and his chest aches, and exhales before he fades into an even further state of unconsciousness.

He repeats the motion again and again, each time holding it just a few seconds longer, till he can barely handle the throbbing discomfort. He needs to feel pain. He needs to remember that he is still living, and that he has eluded death yet another time.

He needs to feel strong.

A small figure steps in the midst of his solitude, dispersing the ravaging fire with a single sweep of its hand. The temperature begins to drop from the uncomfortable heat of a furnace to the crisp chill of a Tatooine night, and he feels his anger start to ebb. He turns to the invader, annoyed at its impertinence.

A young boy stands before him, attired like a padawan with simple tunic and long braid. Pale blue eyes stare into his own - yet they are not as innocent as he expects. Set deep within the socket, framed by lines and weathered by creases, they appear jaded by ancient cares. He falters under their gaze and tries to recapture his former fury. But frost encircles his heart, snuffing out his spark of rage; he feels irritation, nothing more.

"Why are you here? I killed you."

The boy – if he could be called that - shakes his head slowly and sinks into a cross-legged position. He begins to doubt the accuracy of that title – a child could never have such shrewd eyes. But neither would an adult adopt such a guileless appearance. The boy is both young and old, naïve and cynical. He waits for it to speak, hoping that its voice may solve the mystery of its age.

"You pushed me to the back of your mind and ignored my presence – rejected my memories. You didn't destroy me."

The boy's tone is ambiguous, childish excitability mixed with the precision of maturity. He struggles to regain control of the conversation.

"An action I deeply regret."

"Really. And what would you be without me? In time's stream, you are an infant compared to me. My experiences influenced your decisions. My beliefs affected your own. You can't cast off part of your nature so easily or casually."

He takes a step forward, attempting to intimidate the child. "You are a fool. You know nothing of my inner self. You did not even understand your own destiny."

The boy shakes his head, an ironic smile creeping across his lips. "Are you sure of that? I didn't _want_ to be the Chosen One – no one would willingly wish that burden placed on them. But I don't think that exterminating the Jedi is the proper way to achieve balance in the Force."

"What would you suggest, then?" he asks scornfully. "Following their out-dated guidelines? I found power that not even Yoda dared wield. They deserve their fate."

"Great power?" The boy laughs, a clear, innocent note that reverberates keenly through the darkness. "You are the true fool. You're just a servant of evil, feeding off your Emperor like a mindless lackey. Everything you've done has been according to his orders. And look what came of that!"

He stares intently at the child. "What do you mean?"

The boy spreads his hands, blue eyes wide in a look of satisfaction. "You were once Anakin Skywalker, but in discarding my identity you have become nameless."

He opens his mouth, ready to dispute the claim, but stops. The child is correct. His old name suited the ingenuous former slave from Tatooine, but he has not yet stumbled upon a replacement title. He nods silently.

"And I'm afraid that you're also in a state of physical limbo. Even strong young men can die."

He glances down at himself, and finds nothing out of the ordinary. "Liar."

"Oh, touché," the boy scoffs, flicking dust off his collar. "I'm serious. If you're perfectly fine, then why are you talking with me in this nasty abyss?"

"Because I enjoy it."

The child snickers rudely. "And I'm the King of Corellia. Face it, great nameless one: you're dying. Palpatine may be able to salvage your mind and rebuild your body, but you'll only be a shell of your former potential."

He frowns, glares at the boy, disguising his fear with anger. "Never. That's not possible. I am stronger – stronger than all of them! He – he was weak. I slaughtered them at the Temple, easily. And Kenobi was no match for my—"

"My, you are delusional," the boy says, interrupting him quietly. "You don't believe me? Fine. Go see for yourself what you've become."

"I will," he says, stepping out of the shadows into the light.

-/-

Indistinct shapes move around him, breaking the pure whiteness into hazy silhouettes. Snippets of murmured conversation echo behind him as they poke and prod every nerve in his body.


	2. The Garden

_AN: Another prequel-era snippet-this time an AU, where Padmé helped expose and defeat both Palpatine and Anakin/Vader.  
_

* * *

_black ribbon, long black gown  
she's walking through her memories  
she's so alone_

_her soul never left the garden  
-_sixpence none the richer, "The Garden"

* * *

**The Garden**

* * *

She moves in a swirl of tattered silk and soiled velvet, ancient skirts trailing on the dusty stones like the fading plumage of a firebird. Long, matted hair flows down her back, silver mixed amidst the gleaming chestnut strands. Her skin is another such paradox; at first glance her cheeks are smooth, with a soft flush against her china fairness – but a closer look reveals a network of tiny lines, weaving across her face and ending in deep creases by her eyes. And there is also something odd in her gentle brown eyes: a tragic sadness, occasionally replaced by a resigned hope.

She comes to the market sometimes, peddling delicate trinkets wrought from gold wire and colorful stones. On other days, she comes just to watch the hectic chaos of the booths and buyers. Attempts to draw her into a conversation usually produce a quiet refusal—though some, remembering her from hazy childhood memories, will afterwards recall old tales of queens and slaves and forbidden love wistfully over a few rounds of drinks.

The Jedi, it is rumored, know the truth behind her forgotten story—but despite the continuing gossip, they will not even tell her name. The Galactic Coalition sends her enough money each year to live comfortably—"in recognition of her great service to the cause"—but their lips are also sealed.

So the stories persist, as everyone from children to government employees ponder her fate. She was the Supreme Chancellor's mistress, who betrayed his schemes to Bail Organa; she was a Jedi Knight, who'd become disenchanted during the Clone Wars; she was an infamous Separatist traitor, who'd defected to aid the Coalition. Yet the wisest say she'd been a noblewoman, who lost a love in the Clone Wars—if the old legends are to be believed.

They call her the Madwoman of Aldera—as much a part of the culture of the city as the architecture and artifacts from the Republic. Odd visitors come to see her: Jedi in homespun robes, Senators in elaborate garb, military officials in regimental dress. And still she remains a mystery.


	3. Misery Loves Company

_AN: This was originally intended to be a sideways companion piece to "More Than His Master," focusing on Obi-Wan and Siri while Anakin and Ferus presumably sulked offscreen._**  
**

* * *

**Misery Loves Company**

* * *

"I can't understand how you can complain about this mission," Siri muttered irritably, helping Obi-Wan with the intricate fastenings of his coat. "You get to pretend to be a lord of the House Garonnin, feasting on delicacies and listening to the Separatist Party's latest ploy."

Obi-Wan grimaced, trying to wriggle out of the bulky piece of his disguise. "Oh, yes, this is such an enjoyable experience. I wear uncomfortable costumes and mingle with self-absorbed nobles while you, on the other hand, merely gather information."

She smoothed her simple gown – denoting her as a mere clerical aide – with an air of satisfaction. "Hey, don't blame me that you were asked to lead this mission. Would you rather switch roles with Ferus and Anakin?"

He thought of their apprentices, waiting in a bog for a rendezvous with local rebel forces. "No," he admitted.

"Then stop whining." She folded the coat carefully and placed it on a table. "Do you need any more help? Untying your shoes, unbuttoning your vest?"

He slapped her probing fingers away. "I can undress myself perfectly fine, thank you."

"Oh, don't get snippy, Jedi Kenobi," Siri said mockingly, her blue eyes glimmering with cynical humour. "You don't want my company? Fine. I'll go try that safe in Q-Varx's office while you dream in peace."

"Let me know if you get it open."

He sank down on the bed, pulling off his boots without bothering to undo the laces. He tossed the tangled mess into the corner, then shot upright, his senses alert. "There's people approaching. One ... no, two."

She rolled her eyes. "If it's that sycophant, I swear I will give him a piece of my mind."


	4. Ethereal

_AN: I've always been intrigued by Callista-not so much the character in the books, but the idea & concept of her. "Ethereal" was meant to be a short story switching back and forth between her earlier memories and the moments before her first death, so here's the very beginning.**  
**_

* * *

**Ethereal**

* * *

_Although, I admit, I desire,_  
_Occasionally, some backtalk_  
_From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:_  
_A certain minor light may still_  
_Lean incandescent_

-Sylvia Plath, "Black Rook in Rainy Weather

* * *

Muffled under three feet of seawater, Callie Masana hears the howling wind and the slap of waves against the dock. Currents push her to and fro, from cold metal bars to soft pocked hide and back again. She keeps her eyes squeezed shut against the salt's sharp bite, and reminds herself every few seconds to breathe.

_Breathe_.

Blinking tears from her burning eyes, she tosses her head above the water's surface and scans the pen. Five calves clump together in the far right corner, and the smallest one still lies safely nestled in her arms. She shifts her teeth around the aquata breather, then drops back under.

The clear skies overhead seem utterly at odds with the turbulent surf, but she remembers what Papa told her as he lowered her into the calves' pen that morning.

"The eye of a hurricane's the most deceptive part of the storm, Callie. On land, it's a short calm before the slam of that southeast arm. On the ocean, it's deadly. Waves come from all directions and merge into even bigger swells. They call those rogue waves, 'cause you never know where they're coming from."

"How long does it last?"

"Hard to say. If the storm moves quickly: minutes. But if the hurricane stalls, you could be trapped in those crests for hours – days, even."

She stretches her legs, cramped from nearly an hour of treading water, and shifts her grip on the shaky little calf.

Then she feels something change – a shift in the storm's circular current. The tide shoves her towards the calves, then smashes her into the top left edge of the pen. Steel bars collide with her ribs, forcing the air out of her lungs. She tries to swim back to the center.

But the current rams her back against the bars, then left, right, sideways: all directions, in a single second.

She bashes her face against the pen, teeth connecting with metal, accompanied by a agonizing crunch that reverberates throughout her entire skull. Her eyes snap open, watching helplessly as the breather slides out of her bloody mouth, through a crack in the bars, and into the swirling darkness.

Kicking towards the surface, her heart's quickened rhythm merging with the subtler _thud-thud-thud_ of the calf's own heartbeat, she thrusts her head above the choppy waves and struggles to form words through the foam and salt and gore.

No intelligible words come, only a panic-choked shriek.

Through the stinging blurriness, she sees Papa sprinting towards her pen, yelling and waving his arms and pointing towards something behind her.

"Callie, you need to–"

-/-

"—calm down. Our intel's been correct so far. I'm not tossing all that info out just because you have a damn good danger sense."


End file.
